


Context is King

by helsinkibaby



Category: NCIS
Genre: Community: comment_fic, F/M, Fluff, Het, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14916179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: Nick hears Ellie's creative use of language for the first time. He is not amused.





	Context is King

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this look, giffed here...  
> https://torresandbishop.tumblr.com/post/166309048211/quinn-has-a-potty-mouth
> 
> Theme : first lines  
> author's choice, author's choice, would it help if I said sorry?  
> https://comment-fic.livejournal.com/853891.html?thread=105286531#t105286531

"Would it help if I said sorry?" 

Nick drops his bag in its designated place near the front door, doesn't break stride as he walks into Ellie's apartment. Normally, he'd throw himself onto the couch, make himself comfortable and stretch his arm along the back, invite her to join him after a long day. 

Today, he paces. 

"Sorry?" he echoes. "You're sorry?" 

Dropping her bag in its spot beside his, she spreads her arms out wide, though one doesn't stay there for long. Instead it comes back to her face, the balled up tissue in her hand coming to her nose as she sniffs noisily. Her eyes are puffy and red when they meet his. "I told you before," she tells him, "I know six languages, it's easy to get creative." 

"Creative?" He barks the word out with a harsh laugh. "Creative is pottery. It's painting. Knitting, or crochet, or a little spot of découpage. The language you used?" He shakes his head because he'd thought, a couple of years ago, that Clayton had been making things up. No way did Ellie Bishop have a potty mouth, no matter how much pepper spray was used on her. 

Wow, had he been wrong. 

He hadn't understood the first stream of words that had spewed from her mouth during the training today, although the tone of her voice and the look on her face had clued him in on the fact that she wasn't exactly saying her prayers. It had started off with what sounded like Russian, followed by, if he didn't miss his guess, Pashto. 

But it was when she switched into Spanish that he'd realised he wasn't going to have to worry about the pepper spray training and the effect it would have on his eyes, because they were so wide he felt like they were about to roll out of his damn head. 

"I got a little salty-" Ellie tries, but he cuts her off. 

"Salty I can live with. What you said? You don't need forgiveness, you need Jesus." 

Ellie's lips twitch. "You're exaggerating." 

"Exaggerating? Exaggerating?" Nick's aware that his voice has risen an octave or three so he takes a breath, licks his lips and tries again. "There are stevedores working for thirty years on the Norfolk docks who wouldn't use the language you did this afternoon." He shakes his head. "I'll never look at you the same way again."

The words hang in the air between them and for a long moment, Ellie is perfectly still. Then she blinks as a funny look appears on her face and, for the first time, Nick thinks he might have gone a little too far. Then she takes a step towards him, then another, then another. Her palms land on his chest and she tilts her head as she looks up at him and even if he doesn't move, Nick is taken aback. This is not what he was expecting. 

"You know," Ellie says, her voice light, almost teasing, the one she uses whenever she wants to have him wrapped around her little finger. It always works too. "They say context is king." 

Nick frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

The funny look on Ellie's face turns to a knowing smile, one that Nick's seen before, usually in the dim light of his bed or hers. Memory and instinct have his hands landing on her hips, sliding around to her back and down. Ellie's smile widens. Standing on her tiptoes, she rests her hands on his shoulders, brings her lips to his ears and whispers one of the Spanish phrases that so had so scandalised him earlier on in the day. 

But here, like this, her body pressed against his, his hands resting on the curve of her ass, her breath against his ear? 

It has a very different effect. 

It feels as if every drop of blood in his body has flowed south, leaving him light-headed, dry-mouthed. His fingers flex and he pulls her closer to him without even realising that's what he's doing. She bites her lip but a chuckle still escapes and damn it, she knows what that does to him. 

The next phrase she murmurs in his ear - this time, not a repeat from this afternoon, but not a million miles away from one - does away with any and all self control he might have and he's kissing her hungrily, barely registering the smile of her lips as they press against his, the delighted little laugh she gives as he scoops her off her feet and carries her to the bedroom. 

There, it turns out he knows a few salty phrases of his own, which he proceeds to teach her, both in word and deed. 

It's the best language lesson he's ever had.


End file.
